


Feathered Black

by tilly90



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Criminally Insane Patients, Effing Ravens, F/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mental Institutions, Mentions of Infanticide, Mentions of Violence, Morally Grey Harry Potter, St Mungo's Hospital, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 18:22:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14062761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tilly90/pseuds/tilly90
Summary: Draco Malfoy starts each day at the Dea Caelestis Ward for the Criminally Insane with the same routine. Surrounded by madness it keeps him sane. When a new patient arrives, Draco struggles to keep his demons at bay. It doesn’t help that Harry Potter’s rotation on the ward coincides with his. He may be the Wizarding World’s saviour, but Harry has his own agenda. The war may be over, but who can say they won in the end?





	Feathered Black

Draco awakens seconds before the ward chime sounds. He revels in this small accomplishment. His timing precise, just as he likes it.  
  
The order of his routine is thus; plain robes first, a deliberate move to set his patients at ease. The authority card of healer green sets them on edge.  
  
A hair check follows; a Malfoy’s Pride, regardless of the audience.  
  
Next, he walks over to his desk, stopping midway to look at his pocket watch, a family heirloom and his lifeline. It is thirty nine minutes past seven, a good time, so he eyes the second hand ticking away for 8 seconds before he snaps it closed. The sound as welcoming to him as a thirst sated.  
  
The ink bottle is lined up at the right hand side of his stack of parchment. His patient notes, from the previous day, just to the left. Two quills, standard in shape, neatly trimmed, align the margin. It is a comfort having the order as it is, and he never strays from it.  
  
Surrounded by madness, it keeps him sane.  
  
The Dea Caelestis Ward for the criminally insane has been his home for sometime now. The healers live on the ward in rotation, tending to the patients deemed unfit for the Wizarding populace, Azkaban, and the world in general. The ward is a treatment center by name, in reality, a prison for both healer and patient. No magic, no outside sources of information, no visitors. The ward is in a permanent state of lockdown and rightly so.  
  
Draco often thinks the ward should be full to capacity considering the status of most post war. The other healers chuckle when he mentions it. They tend to disregard his opinions on ward matters the majority of the time. He ignores them.  
  
At exactly seven forty five Draco steps out into the stark white corridor, quill and parchment safely stowed in his robe pocket and ready for a day of order on his part, chaos for the rest.  
  
He enters the dining room and rounds the tables, eying the usual riff raff and not making eye contact with the healer table. His slight goes unnoticed by the healers each morning, their indifference on par with his.  
  
The table he has unofficially marked as his own is occupied by himself and one other. The old woman is close to fifty according to his notes, but has the weathered face of a seventy year old. He spots her arched over the table ignoring her plate of food, her eyes fixed on the twines of her fork (charmed to bend, of course). He internally sighs at the sight of her; today isn’t a good day.  
  
“Meda, you didn’t sleep well,” he sumbits in a practiced tone dubbed his ‘patient voice. He doesn’t glance at his food, and reaches for his quill and parchment.  
  
The old woman’s face warps and the lines across her mouth sharpen into a pout, her eyes not leaving her fork. “Not today, Draco. I wish to hear nothing today,” she declares with an authority, as if the command could be true simply by voicing it.  
  
“Ah, so William will be quite a bother then,” he flicks his chin up indicating the man singing on a loop, white noise to him after the first six months or so. How the man never loses his voice is a mystery.  
  
Meda huffs but reaches a withered hand towards him and he takes it, holding her together just for a little while. He stares at her hand and wonders if it was the same one that she killed her grandson with, but he doesn’t ask. He knows statements are easier to process, compared to the motor planning that comes with a question.  
  
No one really asks questions in this place.  
  
He takes the initiative and alternates feeding himself and Meda, still grasping her hand and making small comments here and there. The lines are blurred with his favorite patient, but they bonded a long time ago, and he sometimes thinks he relies on her too. It’s nice to be needed.  
  
He remembers the exact moment that he became a crutch for her. Her pinned to the floor, hair wild and screaming at the man assaulting her. A broken chair leg, crudely shaped into a wand, carving into her forearm while the man slapped and scratched at any available skin bared to him. It was as if Draco’s hands had moved without his control, the next thing he knew the man lay splayed over her, his neck snapped and her shrieking ceased.  
  
As a baby killer she was given no quarter by the rest, but no one in this place was innocent, himself included. The matter was quietly dealt with and Draco was isolated from his duties for a month. After that, well, she relied on him, named him protector, and he decided that he would take the role.  
  
Everyone has bad days, sometimes snapping a neck just happens.  
  
Draco finished feeding them both and flicked his pocket watch open once more, noting the time, and gesturing for Meda to stand. Hand firmly grasped in his own, he leads her out of the dining hall and meanders slowly towards the group therapy room.  
  
Meda is silent, but twitches, alternating her pressure on his hand. The pressure turns vice like and she stops, hanging her head. Draco knows why and scowls at the Auror robed figure rounding the corner ahead. Potter sees them both and that look sweeps across his features. That look of pity flickering with rage, like he doesn’t quite know how to deal with his existence. That look is purely for him. The look he gives to Meda is blank when his gaze flickers to her instead. It’s fascinating to watch the play on his face, everything rolling to the surface so swiftly within seconds.  
  
“You’re going to the therapy room aren’t you?” He tries to say in a neutral tone, but fails.  
  
“Yes, I’m escorting a patient, _Potter,_ ” Draco doesn’t try for neutral but doesn’t raise his voice either. Meda is his concern, he is above hostility with Potter in front of a patient.  
  
“I’ll escort you two; I’m sitting in today.” The pity flashes back for a moment and Draco only just catches it. Interesting.  
  
“Keep your distance, Meda is having a bad day.”  
  
Potter nods, and follows. Draco will add this encounter to his notes.  
  
The trio is early to group; Potter sits at the side and pretends the silence isn’t bothering him. Draco watches the clock, counting the minutes, checking his pocket watch for synchronicity. Meda is stone like, barely breathes, and leans against his shoulder.  
  
The patient's file into the room, William singing a new tune that clashes in an obnoxious way with the shuffling of reluctant feet.  
  
The circle is complete and the Healer opens the session. Draco knows the usual introduction, the following spiel, and the likelihood of following arguments over who gets to speak first. Most days he would be more attentive and make notes, but he is caught and trapped, staring at a new patient, an _unknown_ in his meticulous routine.  
  
That alone sets him on edge.  
  
Her hair is a dark colour, wavy, or maybe more curly? Her skin is smooth and pale, she is young, thin and her eyes are big and brow—  
  
He stops.  
  
A claw like scratch starts at the base of his neck and travels down his spine. He looks away, but feels her presence there. Now it is him clinging to Meda’s hand in his own.  
  
Potter noticed. Of course he did. He tracts Draco’s every movement. He follows Draco’s line of sight and furrows his brow for a moment seeming to stare at the brown eyed woman.  
  
Draco has had enough. He stands and leaves, breaking his _fucking_ routine in the process. Needs must. He practically drags Meda with him and sets a quick pace.  
  
“Silence today, Draco.”  
  
“Yes, Meda,” he replies.  
  


* * *

  
  
It’s seven forty seven and Draco has been standing in a door frame watching the brown-eyed girl. He added this step to his morning routine some weeks ago. He has yet to figure her out.  
  
He asked a few of the patients about her and received nods in return, a request for some of his socks, and a rather skillful rendition of Ave Maria from William.  
  
Meda is even starting to worry about him.  
  
Group therapy has become unbearable at best and teeth achingly tense at worst. She sits there watching the clock in the room, kind of like he does, but she seems to be waiting for something.  
  
Meda brings it up the following day at breakfast.  
  
  
“It’s bothering you now,” she says in an imitation of his ‘healer’ voice.  
  
He chooses to delay his response by flicking his pocket watch open.  
  
“Draco, you’re lost again.”  
  
“What a thing to say, Meda,” he parries.  
  
“Well?” She raises a brow.  
  
Draco returns the look, only better.  
  
“A question! Very well, I am making notes on a new patient. It is...time consuming. That’s all, things will be back to normal soon,” he says with assurance, patting her arm to emphasize the point.  
  
She pats his cheek with fondness, and just like that the matter is closed.  
  
They walk arm in arm to the garden room. It’s as fake as it sounds and mocking in its use of providing normalcy.  
  
Still, the benches are comfortable enough.  
  
  
Potter disrupts the fake tranquility by walking past, he doesn’t even stop, just gives that _look_ as he passes.  
  
Draco is fine. Really, he is.  
  
That is until the squawk of a raven sounds from the branches of the oak tree in the center of the room.  
  
He cannot see it, but he can hear it, and the sound makes his breath catch, his eyes widen.  
  
He tells Meda in a blunt-no-nonsense tone that he needs to leave to attend a meeting.  
  
There is no meeting, but he gets away with it anyway.  
  
He goes back to his room and thanks a deity that he doesn’t believe in that there isn’t a window in there. No chance of ravens. No chance of disturbance. He re-sets his schedule and decides to sleep. Sometimes this place can make you feel this way and he understands that. He will control it. He will.  


* * *

  
  
The ward chime sounds and Draco jolts from sleep. He fumbles for his pocket watch and sharply inhales. The face is cracked, the time stuck on five fifty two. He forgets to check his desk. He doesn’t collect his quill and parchment. He barely manages to get his robes over his sleep tousled hair.  
  
He looks and acts like a fucking _mess_ and he knows it.  
  
He walks to the dining room, walks past the healer table, sits across from Meda and slumps.  
  
“Sweetheart, have a break today. No patients,” she suggests, as caring and kind as a mother would be.  
  
He is silent and ignores her, sometimes he finds it hard to remember who this woman is when she acts like this.  
  
A Healer approaches the table. Draco has dubbed this one ‘Healer faceless’ in his inner musings. The woman so wholly unremarkable in every way, her face isn’t even worth remembering.  
  
“Hello Draco, I was thinking a meeting today after breakfast would be a good idea,” he knows this isn’t a request, rather a demand, “let’s meet up in the garden room at, say, quarter past nine? I’m sure you will be there promptly with that special watch of yours.” She smiles a fake smile and walks away.  
  
Draco thinks she’s a complete dickhead as his clearly _broken_ pocket watch is open and directly next to his wrist resting on the table.  
  
Meda obviously thinks so too with the face she is pulling.  
  
He goes anyway, after pretending to do the breakfast part of the day.  
  
Healer faceless sits on the bench and gets out her quill and some parchment. He instantly regrets not collecting his. He now seems _less_ without it, and the woman has already won any power plays they could have had because of it. He hates not having something in his hands, he doesn’t really know where to put them to seem at ease, when he is anything but.  
  
“It’s quite warm in here today, they must have reset the cycle,” she opens with, he is going to disagree, just because that’s his mood right now.  
  
“I would say it’s leaning more towards an autumn setting, there is a chill in the air,” he sounds bored even to himself. That’s good, he thinks.  
  
The healer nods and does that little head tilt thing that people do when they want to piss off the world, namely him, and he thinks she knows that.  
  
“The leaves are still so green on the oak tree though, aren’t they lovely? With the sun out? It always makes me feel happy seeing that tree.”  
  
Draco isn’t looking at the tree, he knows that raven is in there and he does _not_ want to see that blasted bird. It is a mercy it hasn’t started making noise yet.  
  
“Yes, calming, isn’t it?” He agrees and does that head tilt thing back at her. He’s giving her nothing and now she knows it too judging by that slight twitch of her utterly boring mouth.  
  
“I think you should lead in group today, they’ve all been a bit unsettled lately, would you mind?” Again, he has no choice so he pulls a small smile. She pulls one back. Thank the Gods the farce is over.  
  
Of course, today of all days Harry _bloody_ Potter has to be there when he enters the empty group therapy room.  
  
“Rough morning, Malfoy?” he says, quite clearly eying Draco’s ruffled hair.  
  
“As there are no other patients present, I feel more than fine telling you to go fuck yourself, Potter,” his healer voice used to full advantage.  
  
Potter chuckles and crosses his arms, staring him down while they wait for the rest to arrive.  
  
The brown-eyed girl walks in last and sits close to Potter, too close for him to watch her so he doesn’t. But instead of watching the clock today, he can feel her watching him. He can also sense the sweat gathering on his brow and the shake of his hands that he cannot hide.  
  
Then chaos finds him and there are ravens, not one, but three at the window. Squawking and ruffling and scraping their claws on the sill.  
  
His throat is tight, he can’t hide his labored breath. Meda stands and steps forward, crossing the distance to be by his side.  
  
  
Before she reaches him he stands, he stumbles, and races from the room.  
  
He finds the nearest bathroom and hangs over the sink, drowning his face in cool water, pulling at the collar of his robes, twitching and wheezing.  
  
The door opens, it closes, and Potter walks slowly to the basin next to him.  
  
He washes his hands with deliberate care and side eyes Draco.  
  
“It’s familiar this? Isn’t it?” he says, calm as anything in the face of Draco’s bewildered stare.  
  
The water runs down the sink, the noise stops and Draco’s panicked sounds echo.  
  
“You know, sometimes I wish you had died that day, I can’t decide if it would’ve been better or not.” Potter follows that little tidbit with a moment of silence. Draco refuses to meet his eye and refuses to let his mind wonder back to that moment.  
  
Potter pats him on the back, walks away, and leaves the door open.  
  
Draco looks at his broken pocket watch, he hears the ravens still and decides to give up.  
  
His feet drag him back to the corridor, he sees the brown-eyed girl and doesn’t look away. She walks towards him and he is cold, he really just wants to leave. Now.  
  
The brown-eyed girl stands right in front of him. So close, he can see her hair is more curly than wavy, and she holds out her hand to him and whispers, “I forgive you.”  
  
He wants to lean into her, hold her, maybe say thank you. Instead his vision prickles and dims, fading to black.  


* * *

  
  
Harry Potter was assigned to the Dea Caelestis Ward for several reasons. He thought maybe some closure could be found, but realized his folly only after a few swings on the rotation.  
  
There was no meaning to be found in a place like this, if anywhere, and he was a fool to seek it.  
  
He did regret his part in pushing Malfoy over the edge the day before, but there was a conflict there as well. It was hard to feel any regret when it came to that man, but it snuck up on him regardless.  
  
He made his way through the rounds and tried to spot Malfoy in his regular haunts, coming up bare. Meda was quietly wandering through the starkly lit halls, yet he couldn’t even bring himself to question her on Malfoy’s whereabouts. He didn’t think he could ever speak to that woman again after what she did to his godson.  
  
  
His last place to search was Malfoy’s room, and he did indeed find him there, a familiar sight but it still shocked him when he saw him like this.  
  
  
His room was just like all the other patient’s on the long term ward. His plain robes neatly stacked in an open cupboard, his small cot pressed against a blank wall.  
  
The desk was where his room differed.  
  
The patients weren’t allowed any writing mediums so Draco, still retaining his artistic ability from school, had carved etchings into the wood. Quills, parchment, even a pot of ink were inlaid in the wood where the real things should have stood. It was beautiful by design and the detail so perfect and neatly ordered. It was moments like this when the pity creeped back into his being, entirely against his will.  
  
It firmly implanted itself there when he saw the man himself.  
  
Draco was rocking back and forth mumbling to himself and staring at his broken pocket watch, faded and dull from overuse. The crack in the glass so aged it had now developed a frosted look, the numbers beneath barely visible.  
  
He said nothing but the same thing over and over, in a voice just as broken and aching as his trinket, _five fifty two, five fifty two_ , again and again.  
  
Harry drifted over to Draco, lowering himself to rest on his haunches. “When Meda killed that innocent little boy it was madness driven by a deluded thought of mercy. She thought he should’ve been with his parents you see, and knew that she couldn’t raise him the way they would have wanted, with how plagued she was in her own mind.”

He paused and watched Draco rock back and forth for a beat. “It wasn’t right what she did, but she believed it was. She still does, but she grieves and she admits to what she did.”  
  
Harry, having said his peace, watches him for sometime. He’s seen him like this before and he will see him like this again. Draco remembers every few months or so and the cycle repeats. He doesn’t know if it’s a blessing or a curse, he only knows that sometimes he wishes he could forget too.  


* * *

  
  
_Malfoy Manor 1997_  
  
The Cruciatus curse is instant pain. It is commonly known, and taught as such; everyone knows. What many don’t know, is after the first fifteen minutes of being held under the curse, the muscles of the body will contract to the point of snapping, leaving mobility impossible.  
  
For Hermione Granger, that didn’t happen until nearly thirty minutes had past.  
  
Draco had been watching, waiting for the tell tale signs of her body refusing to tense under the onslaught. He timed it, using the distraction of numbers to focus on anything other than what he was seeing.  
  
Her screams had been deafening, her pleading heart shattering. But seeing her body fail her had been a hammer to his soul, even though he knew it was coming.  
  
She was beautiful, doll like, unnaturally so, and wasn’t that a cruel irony after all these years of _mudblood, mudblood_ , proclaiming that of all things to be unnatural.  
  
The unresponsive doll that was Hermione Granger suffered more under the curse, silent, jolting, but completely voiceless as her body slapped against the floor.  
  
The casting of her torturer was a secondary sound to the ravens that squawked and screeched in the background, plaguing the Manor grounds, a fitting call for the scene.  
  
Draco stared and counted the minutes, his thoughts avalanching, with no solution coming to him, the shock having settled in. His pale hands sparked and twitched, his inner core of magic flaring higher and higher as he drew closer to losing his control.  
  
Bellatrix began carving, crudely scraping the blade against her innocent porcelain skin. The blood, traitorous and leaking from the fresh wounds, no longer beholden to a body ruined.  
  
Draco saw the blood, he heard the ravens, he felt the beat of the pocket watch against his palm.  
  
His magic flared, it snapped, and a wave of light engulfed the room.  
  
The sound of bodies hitting the floor were oddly suppressed, his focus singular, as he strode forward and collapsed over the body of Hermione Granger.  
  
She was soft and pliant in his arms, unresponsive, but awake. He stroked her hair away from her face, he rocked her and held her, muttering nonsense, apologies. At some point he revealed a secret longing he had never spoken of before, words rushing so she would know.  
  
His hand slowly delved into his robes, reaching for his forgotten wand, raising it to rest against her temple like a caress.  
  
He kissed her for a gentle moment against such violence, cracked his pocket watch to mark the time.  
  
He said the words, and the green light flashed, a part of him dying with her.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
